


Downstairs and to the Left

by CaptainLevi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Casual Sex, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, John and Sherlock are neighbors, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Night Stands, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sharing a Bed, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12071343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLevi/pseuds/CaptainLevi
Summary: Sherlock is not interested in a romantic relationship, but how come he keeps ending up in bed with his hot neighbor?





	1. Chapter 1

"Bollocks" Sherlock curses under his breath as he bumps his little toe on the corner of the bedside table while fishing for his clothes. He then reminds himself to keep quiet to avoid waking the man snoring softly near him.  
He finally locates his trousers under the bed and his shirt not far from it. 

Still, he can't find his pants anywhere. He squints in the faint dawn light and takes another look at the bed, and bloody hell. He can see part of his black pair of pants peeking from under the muscled naked torso of his neighbor, trapped and impossible to retrieve without waking the person trapping it.

He catches himself staring and has the urge to slap his own face. How many times is he going to make this mistake? He doesn't need this, cannot afford to waste his time on romantic entanglements. This will be the last time he sleeps with John, he tells himself for what feels like the 100th time.

Well, it will be a bit itchy, but it's only a couple of flights of stairs, he can do without the pants until he gets to 221B. 221C, the basement flat where his relatively new neighbor lives, is much smaller and darker, but John keeps it spotless clean and meticulously neat that it feels spacious due to the lack of clutter. John is still an intern and cannot afford even this tiny flat, but he somehow charmed Mrs. Hudson to give it to him for a more affordable price. Sherlock tries hard to pretend he is not jealous that he isn't her only spoiled, adored tenant anymore.

Once the decision is made to abandon the pants, Sherlock quickly throws on his shirt and slips into his trousers. He is fastening his last button when a voice comes from the bed behind him.

"No round three then?" John says with his sexy morning voice, and Sherlock curses again as he remembers. They did it TWICE! Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night and decided he wanted to suck John off while he was asleep, but John did wake up and flipped him over on his back. As he remembers the obscene noises that ensued, Sherlock feels thankful that Mrs. Hudson is away in Bristol with her sister.

He turns around to look at John, who is lying on his back, slightly propped up on his elbows. The sheets have slipped off his body and formed a puddle between his thighs. They only cover his groin, but the delicious V lines leading downwards are visible, maddeningly so.  
Again, Sherlock slaps himself mentally and prepares to deliver the usual speech.  
"John, while I'm flattered, I think you should know…"

"Yeah, yeah" John huffs as he slumps back on the bed "You're happily married to your work. I highly doubt your work makes you orgasm three times in one night though." He lifts his arms to support the back of his head, and the sheets give up and slip completely off onto the floor.  
For a moment, Sherlock is tempted to go back there, but then he remembers the fresh fingers waiting for him in his fridge.  
"No" he says before he loses control over the situation and leaves as fast as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I've just had this idea and was so excited to start with it, it's really a short start but I just wanted to set it first. Thanks to whoever's reading, have a lovely day.


	2. Chapter 2

John gets home after a long day at the hospital. His shift has been even more exhausting than usual, and he just wants to lie down and not think of anything until next morning. Maybe he'll pop in on Sherlock, he thinks smiling to himself, and watch crap telly with him or look at his disgusting experiments.

  
He unlocks his door and gets inside, only to come face-to-face with a long figure sitting in his sofa in the dark, holding his pen light and one of his medical textbooks. John flinches, his heart jumping wildly before he realizes it's Sherlock.

  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. If you're trying to kill me just feed me something out of your fridge, that'd be quicker than trying to give me a heart attack, you git." He says as he flicks the light on.

  
"Don't be ridiculous" Sherlock says, not lifting his eyes from the heavy book he is reading "There's never food in my fridge."  
"I know, that's why you eat mine" John rolls his eyes as he hangs his coat and puts a bag of takeaway on the table. He pretends it bothers him, but he intentionally gets extra portions of food because he knows Sherlock likes to eat off his plate or just pick at whatever John's having, and John has a feeling it's the closest thing to a meal Sherlock has all day.

  
He glances at the thin figure as he gets plates and forks from his small kitchen. Sherlock is lying on the small sofa, somehow fitting his gangly limbs in the tiny space. He looks like a big cuddly cat. The shiny raven curls and the piercing eyes both add to the effect. He grimaces as he reads something that must be intriguing, his eyes go a bit crossed, and John decides it's the most adorable thing he has ever seen.  
He wants to wrap his arms around him and smell his hair and kiss his eyes, but he knows he isn't allowed. Sherlock Holmes does not cuddle. He does not date, and he sure as hell does not do relationships.

  
John doesn't get to kiss, or hug, or spoil him like he wishes he could. What he gets is heated nights of mind-blowing sex, moments where his brain cancels everything expect the divine body he is worshipping, and on very rare occasions, milliseconds where Sherlock's beautiful face is so open and fragile after a particularly good kiss, that it melts John's heart.  
But as soon as the moment passes and the fire in their chests dies down, Sherlock flees the scene mumbling something about work.

  
John can't fault him really, Sherlock made himself clear the first night they met when John attempted to flirt. "Married to my work," he said, and John respected that, though he felt his foolish heart fall a bit deeper even as he was being rejected.

  
Then, they simply started sleeping together. The first time it happened, it was morning, and Sherlock came to borrow some milk. Of course in Sherlock's dictionary, the word 'borrow' means barge into people's homes, and steal milk, biscuits, and honey whenever you like.  
John was getting out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. In a matter of five seconds, they locked eyes, and then Sherlock was crowding him against the wall and pushing the towel down as he kissed him feverishly. Turned out Sherlock was wearing nothing but the sheet that was hugging his lean body, and so things escalated.

Somehow, everything stays the same afterwards. Sherlock still breaks into John's flat and goes through his things and eats all his food. They still watch crap telly upstairs at 221B and have tea and talk about Sherlock's interesting clients. But every once in a while, Sherlock gets that look in his eyes, stares at John's chest and hands and licks his lips, and they just end up in bed, rutting and moaning and driving each other insane with pleasure.

"You know, for someone who's married to their work, you sure spend an awful lot of time in my flat" John cannot conceal the bitterness from his voice, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice anything.

  
"It smells nicer here, and you've got ginger nuts" Sherlock says, as he pops said biscuit in his mouth, John only now notices the bag in his other hand.

"That's because I don't keep road kills in my fridge, and I actually buy food"

"Dull. And those are NOT road kills. I would think being a doctor, you'd appreciate some scientific curiosity." Sherlock counters as he gets up and starts stealing meatballs from John's plate.

  
They sit and have dinner together and talk, Sherlock tells him about his latest cases, and John listens, unintentionally muttering "amazing" and "brilliant" between lines and bites of food.

  
As Sherlock stand to leave, John turns and gets the chain holding his keys from the hook on the wall.  
"Wait" he says, and Sherlock freezes, shoulders tense and eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Don't worry, I'm not about to seduce you, idiot. Here" he extracts a key from the chain and extends it to a perplexed-looking Sherlock.

"What is this?"

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, genius and world's only consulting detective, this is a key, and people use it to unlock doors. Awfully useful, you should try it."

"Why are you giving me a key" Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"It's a key to my flat, so that you don't have to pick my lock and sneak in anymore." John says simply.

Sherlock blinks his dark lashes multiple times quickly, staring at John like he's never seen him before. This goes on for longer than expected. Seconds pass and Sherlock still stares.

  
"Yeah, that’s getting a bit scary now." John says in concern.

Then, Sherlock apparently snaps out of it, as he gives him a warm smile, snatches the key, and leaves without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is short, but I promise I have interesting plans for next chapter. Hugs to anyone reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update. The magical fairies of inspiration seemed to have abandoned me lately, hope you enjoy this though!

Sherlock gets home grumpy and bored after a day completely wasted. There hasn't been any cases in a few days, and he has just lost his best source of specimens.

Molly, the girl who works at Bart's morgue has just been replaced by a very strict by-the-book pathologist by the name of Mike Stamford, and this just won't do.

Sherlock knows Molly has a bit of a crush on him, and he shamelessly takes advantage of it. Before she was replaced, she used to allow Sherlock into the lab, let him take a look at the fresh corpses, and even give him specimens for his countless experiments. But now, after one visit to the lab, Sherlock knows those privileges are no longer granted to him.

With one glance at the man, he was able to read Mike's obsession with playing by the rules, so he didn't even bother to ask for anything, and now he is bored.

He turns to ascend the stairs, but then the temptation to turn the other way… just to the left, suddenly grows wildly. He knows John is home, can deduce it from the smell of tea, the position of the door mat, and the fact that John was on call yesterday and must be off today.

He reaches a hand into the pocket of his coat to feel the key that John gave him, and his heart jumps to declare war and take over all rational thought, once again reducing him to a shy teenager.

He walks slowly to the door and takes the key out, but before he can slip it in, the door opens abruptly and he is facing the very distracting, very disarming smile of John Watson.

"I…" he stutters, quite uncharacteristically.

John gets a hold of his lapels and pulls him inside, still smiling.

"You know, hanging around with you can teach a bloke a trick or two." John says, stretching his arm to shut the door behind Sherlock. He is practically crowding him against it, stepping unnervingly close. Sherlock can smell minty shampoo and danger, but he tries to keep his face straight and unreadable.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like," John gets even closer, his breath a warm huff on Sherlock's cheek "When I hear the front door open and close, but don't hear anyone going up the stairs or entering Mrs. Hudson's flat, I deduce that a certain neighbor of mine is lingering outside with an adorable pout on his face."

"I do not pout! And I am certainly not adorable!" Sherlock objects indignantly, "Besides, you can't deduce my face expressions based on the sounds of doors opening and closing."

"Yes I can." With every word, John is moving closer, his eyes repeatedly dropping to stare at Sherlock's mouth as he licks his lips. "You're home early, you're supposed to be at Bart's playing tea time with cadavers, yet you've come home at this hour, something must have happened. Also, you've practically slammed the door shut behind you. I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson didn't come out to scold you. She must have had her 'soothing herbal tea' already. Oh, see? Another deduction. I'm on fire today."

He laughs and Sherlock's breath catches, because he can't take it anymore. How is he supposed to resist this? He cannot avoid John Watson any more than he can avoid a locked-room triple homicide.

Dazed, he leans and tries to catch John's lips with his mouth, but John moves back abruptly. The bastard.

"Tell me what happened. Why are you home, then?" he asks in a neutral tone as if he hasn't spent the last five minutes mercilessly tantalizing Sherlock.

Sherlock has to take a deep breath and sigh before he answers. It draws a satisfied smirk on John's face, which Sherlock simultaneously wants to kiss and punch.

"Well, let me see" Sherlock huffs in annoyance as he remembers "Your stupid hospital just replaced the morgue registrar who used to give me access to my specimens." He complains as if it's all John's fault.

"It's not my hospital, Sherlock, I just work there." John says as he moves behind the counter separating the kitchen from the living room and starts making tea.

"And by YOUR specimens, I suppose you mean cadavers people have generously donated for the sake of scientific research, not the entertainment of a bored detective without cases."

"What I do _is_ scientific research." Sherlock says petulantly "And now that new bloke won't let me anywhere near the morgue, I know it."

"Actually, Mike is a great guy. Maybe if you're decent to him…"

"What? You know him?" Sherlock practically pounces at a startled John, who just stares at him.

"Well?" Sherlock prompts.

"Yeah, we uh… played rugby together at uni." John says, though he looks suspicious, he must know what's coming.

"You'll simply have to talk to him for me then." Sherlock tries to inflict as much confidence as he can into the statement, but he can see John's lips twisting in an evil smile again.

"Maybe" he says simply as he hands him a mug of tea.

"Maybe? John, you have to do it. You know how I get when I'm bored. Do you want Mrs. Hudson to be upset?"

"Oh, God forbid." John is still grinning. He stares at his tea for a moment, evidently thinking up a plan to exploit the situation, before he speaks again.

"You didn't say the magic word."

"I don't beg." Sherlock says stiffly.

John abandons his tea and is approaches him again.

"I bet I can make you."

Sherlock has no time to roll his eyes at the weak sexual innuendo, because suddenly, John is there again, his eyes and mouth and neck and arms, all there. Sherlock wonders how he is always so warm, he practically emanates heat, and Sherlock is drawn to it like a kitten seeking the sunlight.

They kiss, and Sherlock's hand magically manages to place his tea on the counter as he melts into John's lips. He moans softly, he loves it when John tilts his head a bit. It makes the kiss is deeper and even sweeter.

He feels the familiar twist in the depth of his belly that John is always responsible for, his heart working at maximum capacity, and his hands scrambling to touch him everywhere… anywhere.

John starts to peel off his clothes without breaking the kiss. His hands work swiftly to unfasten and slide off items of clothing. They move slowly towards the small bedroom, and by the time they're there, Sherlock is only in his pants. A trail of clothes lies on the floor from the kitchen to the bed where he stands, shivering as John kisses and sucks at his neck and chest.

He falls back on the bed, trying to catch his breath as he shamelessly divests himself of the pants. John takes his clothes off quickly and soon joins him on the bed.

Heat, so much heat… John Watson is a small ball of fire, sending pleasant warmth into Sherlock's skin. They're a heap of naked bodies on the bed, kissing messily, moaning, and grinding against each other.

John's hands are moving between Sherlock's hair and chest, stroking and teasing. He is slotted between Sherlock's open legs and their erections are at perfect alignment, but John isn't moving, won't move no matter how much Sherlock tries to buck underneath him.

Sherlock knows John loves to tease him, but he just can't admit how much it turns him on, because it also makes him furious.

"Johnnn" he drawls grumpily. John lifts his face, lips swollen from kissing and damp from sucking on Sherlock's peaking nipples.

"Ready to beg already?" he smiles, his hand stroking Sherlock's stomach, right below his navel and above the beginning of his pubic hair. His whole body feels like it's combusting, but he cannot… will not succumb to John's evil scheme.

"No" he says with as much dignity as he can muster, but his quick breathing betrays him and John simply laughs and resumes his ministrations.

He leans back and away, sitting on his heels on the bed, and Sherlock almost whimpers at the loss of the warmth and contact, but John is still moving, and suddenly his head is down between Sherlock's parted thighs.

Sherlock shuts his eyes, bracing himself for one of John's admittedly brilliant fellatios, but John neglects his arrow-stiff cock and goes down to nuzzle the cleft of his behind.

An embarrassing noise escapes Sherlock's mouth as he feels John's tongue flicking on his hole, his whole body wriggles helplessly while John continues to lick between his cheeks. His hand automatically flies to stroke his cock but John somehow catches it and grabs the other one too. He presses Sherlock's hands on the bed on either side of him and settles again between his thighs. Sherlock whimpers, feeling fat drops of precum creating wet patches on his stomach, and John never relents.

Sherlock feels his tongue now probing the ring of muscles slowly at first, but then John takes up his pace and starts stabbing his tongue in there hard, making Sherlock's whole body bounce with the movement.

At this point, Sherlock is almost shouting, his wrists still caged under John's hands, and suddenly, words tumble out of his mouth without thought or permission.

"Oh, please, John, please!" he shouts, appalled at what he's saying, but unable to stop.

"There we go." John lifts his head with a proud smile, and Sherlock wants to hate him so bad in this moment.

John clasps his left hand around Sherlock's cock and buries his face again under his balls. It only takes a couple of strokes for Sherlock to start feeling the delicious tremors of a fantastic orgasm. His body is a ball of flame, seizing with the pleasure, and everything disappears for a moment... or many moments, who knows?

When he opens his eyes, John is straddling him. He looks predatory as his eyes survey Sherlock's body sprawled on the bed. His hand, now coated with Sherlock's semen, strokes his own cock desperately. Sherlock wants to help, touch, anything, but John is already groaning on top of him, his semen shoots long creamy stripes on Sherlock's heaving chest.

John slumps his body next to Sherlock, panting. He starts to giggle as he turns his head to look at Sherlock.

"Shut up." Sherlock says, fighting a smile. "Fine. I begged. Don't get used to it though. Now, will you talk to Mark for me?"

"Mike. I will."

Sherlock sighs in relief, but John does not stop talking.

"Under one condition."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "I can't think of anything you'd want that you haven't just received."

John giggles again, and Sherlock pretends he doesn't find it charming.

"No, not that." He turns serious "There's a charity ball that the hospital staff has to attend next Friday. I want you to come with me, as my date."

"No." Attend a party? With people? Nope, Sherlock's had quite enough of that when he used to live with his rich parents, hated it then and hates it now. The only case he'd go is if there is a serial killer lurking among the attendees.

"Well then, afraid you'll have to fend for yourself with Mike after all." John says as he twists to lie on his back, hands supporting the back of his neck. His muscles ripple under golden skin. Sherlock stares at him with a mixture of arousal, anger, awe, and a hint of amusement. John Watson is one huge problematic, infuriating distraction. But he has something Sherlock needs right now, and Sherlock hates that he has to say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who's reading, if you have a comment, feedback, or just want to say hi, I'd love to hear from you! Have a great day.


	4. Chapter 4

John looks in the mirror nervously. He never dresses up and it just feels odd to wear a suit and tie. He runs a hand through his hair to tamp down the stray strands, but they won't budge and they just stick up again.

He grunts in frustration. He can't make himself calm down or will his heart to stop attempting to escape his chest. He cannot believe his luck, Sherlock has agreed to go on a date with him, even if it's in return for something.

He hears his door open and his stomach twists. It's stupid, he's known Sherlock for months now and they've had sex for God's sake. He just needs to somehow convince him that they should be more than this, that they could have something better and stronger. If only Sherlock would let him, John would give him everything and anything.

"Come on John, we'll be late for your tedious party." Sherlock says as he enters the bedroom, and John's face relaxes into a smile when he sees him.

Sherlock manages to always look gorgeous, but right now he simply looks radiant in a fitted suit and a purple shirt tailored within an inch of its life. John sighs as he takes in the startling amount of beauty.

"This is so unfair, you know. You just throw on one of your suits and look like a bloody super model, meanwhile I look like my uncle Horace in his church suit."

To his delight, Sherlock blushes and stares at his shoes for a moment before he replies.

"Well, do all your shirts absolutely need to be plaid?"

"Oi! Do not insult the plaid!"

"And don't get me started on those jumpers and cardigans too. You do realize you have the taste of a 90 year old, right?"

"That's the secret to my sex appeal." John replies and slaps his own bottom.

"Yes, I see that. I seriously fail to see how you managed to stay single." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

\--

They take a cab to the posh hotel where the event is to take place, and John spends the ride thinking of what he is going to say, and how he can talk to Sherlock without scaring him off.

The cab stops outside the hotel and they get off. John hesitates, but then makes up his mind and reaches to hold Sherlock's hand in his without a word. Sherlock stiffens for a moment, but John strokes the back of the soft hand with his thumb until he feels it relaxing under his touch. He turns and smiles at Sherlock, who's staring at their joint hands in what looks like fascination.

The fancy hall is already buzzing with guests in sparkling dresses and dark suits. John heads to get drinks but Sherlock grabs his arm to stop him

"Ugh, John, I may have to get back on my word and leave right this instant."

John's heart sinks "What? Why?"

"See that twat there?" John tries not to snort, Sherlock never swears, and it just doesn't suit him. His voice drips with contempt as he stares at an extremely posh looking man engrossed in a conversation with the chief physician at Bart's. He is holding an umbrella and wearing a three-piece suit that must be worth John's rent for five months.

"The one who looks like he just smelled a fart?"

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and then suddenly breaks into a mad fit of laughter.

"He does look like that, doesn't he?" He has this habit of turning his face away when he laughs and John adores it.

John steals a glance in the direction of the man again, and panics when he finds him staring right back.

"Shit, Sherlock, he's seen us."

"Quick, recite Hail Mary, maybe we can make it go away."

This time, they both start laughing, and when they stop, they find the man standing right in front of them. John wonders if he really should recite Hail Mary.

"Sherlock," the man nods "I gather you still fail to act like a grown-up."

"Mycroft, I gather you still love to eat cake for breakfast." Sherlock retorts.

"Very mature." Umbrella man turns to survey John and something glints in his eyes "Though, I must say I am happy you are engaging in less dangerous… recreational activities."

John's anger flares at once, he knows what this Mycroft is alluding to, but he also knows Sherlock has been clean for a long time and does not need reminding of his past drug abuse right now.

"Hey, fart-face," John takes a step towards him, "Mind your own business, yeah?"

"I daresay my little brother does indeed count as my business."

John freezes and turns to Sherlock, who almost looks apologetic for being related to the man.

"Anyway, what are you doing here, Mycroft? Don't you have a war somewhere to run?"

John blinks, trying to digest the new data.

"But surely you've deduced. I'm one of the donors."

"But you never attend these tedious things." Sherlock gives him a dissecting look, and then smiles maliciously and looks around searchingly. "Oh I see. Where is my dear brother in law, then?"

"He is right here, ready to play peacemaker between you two prats as usual." a gruff voice comes from behind them and they all turn to face a silver-haired man who looks weary and bored. John has the feeling the man has seen too much of the Holmes' drama in his lifetime. He also looks extremely familiar, but John just can't quite place him.

"Lestrade, why haven't you been calling me? Is London clear of criminals all of a sudden, or have you by some miracle become competent at your work?"

"Lestrade!" John points at him unnecessarily, "Isn't he the coppa that gives you your cases? I've seen you around. You've never told me he's your brother in law, Sherlock!"

"I think Sherlock's been keeping a lot of secrets lately." Mycroft says as he gives John a knowing look, making heat rise in his face. Sherlock rolls his eyes, turns, and walks away without a word.

"Come on Myc, let's get drinks." Lestrade says as he wraps an arm around Mycroft. "This was supposed to be a fun night for the two of us, remember?" John hears Lestrade's trailing voice as they walk away.

 

"That was… interesting." John says as he catches up with Sherlock.

"Nothing about Mycroft is interesting." Sherlock replies and hands him a glass of wine.

"So, what does he do exactly?"

"He is the British government."

There is finality in his tone and John doesn't ask. For all he knows, anyone with intelligence equal to Sherlock's can run the world, let alone a country.

They fall silent for a bit, sipping on their drinks. Soft music fills the big hall, and some people head to the dance floor.

John casts nervous glances in his date's direction. He often finds himself taking the opportunity of Sherlock's distraction to stare at him like an idiot.

"I’ll let you in on something, John." Sherlock says as he stares at the dance floor.

"Go on, then."  
"I love dancing. I’ve always loved it." He smiles.  
"Seriously?" John didn't think he could fall any deeper, but here he goes.

  
"Watch out." Sherlock hands John his drink, rises on his left foot and does a full-circle pirouette. When he stops, he rests a hand on John's chest, leaning into him to regain balance, and time freezes as they both stare into each other's eyes, slowly moving into each other's orbits.

"Well, if it isn't John Watson!" a voice startles both of them and John sighs in frustration because he simply cannot catch a break with the man he is crazy about.

He turns to look at whoever interrupted and his heart skips a beat. Platinum blonde hair, angular nose, square jaw, clear blue eyes. A rush of memories floods his brain and he forgets how to speak for a moment. The newcomer keeps smiling pleasantly and looking between him and Sherlock.

"Ja… umm, Dr. Sholto" John finally manages to say, "I thought you moved outside London."

"Hello, John. I did, and I came back" Sholto nods. "It's good to see you. How are you?"

The familiarity of the quite smile and the intense gaze send shivers down John's spine, but they also poke at old wounds he thought were healed. He schools his expression into neutrality nonetheless, and tries to act natural.

"Fine. So, you're working again, then?"

"I am. I've actually just accepted a position here at Bart's. I understand you're doing your internship there as well?"

"I am." John struggles to take in the new information. Of all places, and after everything that happened, James has come to work at Bart's!

Sholto looks at Sherlock with an inquiring smile and John clears his throat quickly.

"Sherlock, this is Dr. James Sholto, he taught me at uni. Dr. Sholto, this is Sherlock, my… um… neighbor." John winces at his own stuttering.

"Pleasure." James extends a hand, and Sherlock takes it reluctantly.

"Dr. Sholto, how was Glasgow?" Sherlock asks simply.

James stares at him and then at John, a question in his eyes.

"Oh, he's a genius." John shrugs as if this is the most normal thing to say, but he is used to explaining this quite often to people. This and apologize repeatedly to them on his neighbor's behalf.

It occurs to him that Sherlock must have deduced his past with James by now. He looks at him, but Sherlock's face is closed and expressionless.

"Glasgow was nice, but I had to get back to London at some point, there were too many important things I left behind." He meets John's eyes as he says this.

"Oh. I see. Something must have happened to you to make you leave. Emotional trauma. Possibly related to wor…"

"Okay, Sherlock" John interrupts. He cannot discuss this, not now, and perhaps not ever. "It was nice to see you again, Dr. Sholto, but we must be going now."

"Well," James gives him a wounded smile "I'll be seeing you around then, I think."

John nods, trying to calm his racing heart. He watches Sherlock watching James leave, not knowing what to say.

"You were emotionally involved with him." Sherlock says with a neutral tone, still staring at where James' figure disappeared into the crowd.

"Yes."

"It didn't end well."

"No."

"What happened?" he asks and finally meets his eyes. His face is filled with curiosity, but also with something else… some savage emotion that John cannot name.

"Come on," he grasps Sherlock's right hand in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. "Let's go home and I'll tell you all about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally did not want to stop here, but it just became too long and I decided to post what I have and post the rest in another chapter, but it shouldn't take long cause I almost have it ready.   
> Also, I realize I keep shoving Mycroft in every story I write, but I really love him and love his relationship with Sherlock, and then I was like, why not some Mystrade too!
> 
> Hugs and kisses to whoever's reading! I hope your coffee is delicious and your pillow is fluffy and your hair is on point, happy weekend <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted half of this couple of days ago and deleted it, and now I'm posting it again with some changes and added parts. I'm sorry, I know this is annoying, but I was very hesitant about the plot.  
> Also, warning, angst ahead!

Sherlock Holmes knows jealousy. It's fairly simple. He understands it the way he understands a chemical reaction, though certain variables may not be as predictable as chemistry when it comes to human emotion, but it's fairly simple in the end. What people usually miss, as they often see but do not observe, is that jealousy is a mere equation. Love minus satisfaction, love plus hate, love multiplied by anger. It is a main trigger to murder, and this is why it is both interesting and important.

But what Sherlock Holmes does not understand, is why he feels jealous right now. At first he doesn't see it, can't put a name to it. He feels hot liquid rage trickling inside him the moment he meets Dr. Sholto. He wonders why he feels like he wants to hold John's hand and lead him away from here. It's ridiculous.

He can't be jealous, isn't allowed to be jealous. He is married to his work and that's all that matters. Emotional entanglements make one stupid, even stupider than the average individual.

It's painful though, this odd burning sensation that won't relent, like a hot ember slowly burning its way into his insides. Maybe he's about to go down with the flu, because he feels feverish and nauseous. He must remember to ask John to get him an antibiotic.

How strange. The thought of John taking care of him if he gets sick is comforting and warm. Maybe if he gets sick John would stop staring at his gorgeous ex, who looks like he wants to devour him, and pay attention to Sherlock again. He pauses and wonders when he got so pathetic. It makes him furious at John for some reason.

They get a cab home, and Sherlock stares outside the window distractedly. Misery washes over him in waves. If he could just understand why.

Data: John met his ex when he was supposed to be spending time with Sherlock. Observation: Ex is a cardiothoracic surgeon. Obvious. A very skilled one too, probably renowned in his field. He is good-looking and fit. Played a sort of competitive sport at some point of his life, possibly football judging by his muscly strong-looking legs.  He taught John at university. Age gap and a somewhat frowned upon affair made them discreet about it. Problem: Sherlock feels miserable and angry and cannot stop imagining John with James Sholto. It makes him feel alone.

Theory one: Sherlock is jealous because he is in love with John. Assessment: Ridiculous. Emotions render one's brain clouded and slow. Caring makes one's judgement biased. No. He can't be jealous because he isn't in love with John Watson. Theory ruled out.

Theory two: Sherlock is annoyed John wouldn't spend as much time with him when he gets back with his ex. Plausible. John proved useful and less boring than average by a wide margin, not to mention his skills in bed. Sherlock blushes at the thought and checks if John is looking at him.

Yes. It would be most inconvenient to disturb this arrangement. Yes. That's probably it. Sherlock sighs in relief. Theory accepted.

He jumps a little when he feels warm fingers tickling his open palm. "Are you alright?" John says as he traces his fingertips along prominent veins on the back of Sherlock's hand, making him shiver at the soothing touch. He nods slowly, watching John's soft movement up and down his hand.

"You know, it was an insane time of my life." John says.

For a moment, Sherlock just stare at him. Then, he realizes he is talking about Sholto.

"I was young and he was my teacher. I thought I was in love." John shrugs. Sherlock doesn't want to ask why he's telling him this, because he is desperate to know.

"He was a brilliant surgeon though at the start of his career, he was the best. But one day he lost a patient on his table. It was a routine surgery… text book. No one knew what happened. They started an investigation, but nothing was certain."

"Is this why he moved away… left you?"

John nods slowly "He never recovered. Never got over it. I tried to help, but he didn't want my help." John smiles sadly at him, and Sherlock feels like he wants to hold him.

"Anyway, it was a long time ago." John holds his hand tenderly as they get out of the car, and he doesn't let go all the way to the building.

The moment the door is shut behind them, Sherlock feels a million different emotions at once. Too many to identify and file, but all he wants is to be with John, kiss him, and hold him even for just a bit. It might be the last time he could.

His movement is sloppy and uncoordinated, but he pushes John against the wall, making him gasp as he finds himself trapped against Sherlock's longer frame. He looks up in confusion, his lips move to form a question, but Sherlock kisses him desperately and the words are lost between their mouths.

Usually, Sherlock loves to lie back and indulge in the attention John lavishes on him. It's become a new sort of addition to him, to wallow in the various pleasures those clever hands send through his body. John has learned every sensitive spot and every caress that make Sherlock gasp and writhe in his arms. He knows how to bring him to completion over and over again, having memorized the map of his body and its secrets.

But right now, Sherlock wants to be the one in control, to take John apart and put him back together again. He deepens the kiss, and John makes a delicious sound that dissolves into the hot twists and turns of their mouths. Sherlock is surprised to find himself biting on the delicious pink lower lip, but John doesn’t seem to mind in the least, moaning softly and breathing harshly against him.

He leaves one hand pressed next to John's head on the wall and trails the other down his lovely neck, and then further down to feel muscles moving softly over the heaving chest. He breaks the kiss and John almost whimpers and looks up at him, already drunk with lust.

"We're going to wake Mrs. Hudson." He pants as Sherlock leaves open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. "She'll come out and find us like this."

"John, she knew we were shagging before we even started shagging."

"Doesn't mean she should get an eyeful!"

Sherlock ignores him and rests his forehead on his right shoulder. He pushes his hand lower still until he is palming the bulge between John's legs.

"Wait." John gasps and his hand flies to clutch Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock lifts his head, startled and worried, and feels his mouth form a tense line, but John reaches to stroke his trembling lower lip with his thumb and kisses his cheek tenderly.

"I… I just wanted to talk to you about something."

"Okay?" Sherlock says slowly as he fights the urge to close his eyes under the soothing touch.

Suddenly, John's eyes are sad and fearful. He's looking at him differently, like they haven't known each other for months, like he is bracing himself for something hurtful and difficult. Sherlock tenses with apprehension.

"Listen, Sherlock. I like this, I really do" he glances at their bodies, intimately tucked in together. 

"But I don't want to do this anymore, can't do this anymore." John whispers as if every word is costing him so much.

Sherlock goes cold all over. He leans back, causing John's hand to slip from his face and hang in the air, frozen and unsure. He stares at John, unable to believe how much the words hurt. Apparently, he miscalculated, overlooked the danger, but he should have known. He swallows against the lump in his throat.

"Yes, you're right of course." Sherlock says, making sure his voice is as even and as neutral as can be "Let's end this now. The sooner the better, so you can get back with your previous… ex-lover."

"Get back… what?" John shakes his head.

"It's alright John, I saw the way you and Sholto were looking at each other. This isn't serious anyway. It was just a bit of fun… a little game." He says even as he feels his heart breaking with every word. He fights to keep his expression cold and unaffected.

"A game? This was a game to you?" John's voice shakes.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say so he doesn't say anything. He keeps his face closed and musters every bit of control he has to keep himself from running away from this conversation. He feels foolish.

"Okay." John nods and stares at the floor for a moment before he locks eyes with Sherlock again "Just so you know, I didn't want to break it off, I wanted…" he pauses and shakes his head again like he's trying to stop himself from saying something "But never mind. It's good to know this was just a game to you."

Sherlock stares. What did he miss?

John huffs out a broken, heartless laugh "I suppose it's my fault that I hoped… well, I hoped…" John shrugs and doesn't finish this sentence either. He keeps leaving his words hanging in the air, unfinished, open and lost on his lips. He looks sad and like a light was blown out in his eyes. Sherlock doesn't know what to do or say.

What had he hoped? What did he want to say? Why is he suddenly staring behind Sherlock at the door to his flat like he wants to run away?

"I'm really tired, Sherlock. I think I'll go to bed now. I'll… see you around." John says even as he moves towards the door hastily.

"John…" Sherlock calls, but John is already opening his door. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He says before he disappears inside.

\----

It's been days, and Sherlock still doesn't understand what happened. He sits by his window and watches John leave to work every morning. Then, he goes downstairs, turns left and opens John's door.

He doesn't know why he does it, but he just lies in John's bed to think. John's bed is made neatly most days, smoothed evenly with the sheets all tucked in like a hospital bed. But on rear occasions, John wakes up minutes later than usual and has no time to put the sheets in order before he gets ready. Sherlock loves those days. First he examines the imprint on the mattress and the way the duvet has been twisted and pushed to accommodate the body that has been sleeping there in the night.

Then, Sherlock likes to put his head where John's head was, lie exactly within the boundaries of the slight dip in the mattress, and wrap himself completely in John's sheets. It feels warm and safe and smells like fabric softener and John's shampoo.

Today is one of those days, and Sherlock sighs as he shuts his eyes and buries his nose in John's pillow. The smell sends shivers down his body, and he can't help remembering the feeling of John's hands on him. He is forced to admit that he misses them so much it almost hurts. His skin burns with yearning when he remembers how John touches him, peeling away his clothes to trace the exposed skin gently with his fingers. He shuffles and adjusts his legs as he feels a delicious shiver running through him and heat settling between his thighs.

Maybe this is what he needs to stop feeling miserable. Maybe this is what he misses so much he can barely breathe. Time to test the theory, then.

He sighs and his hand slides slowly downwards to palm the swell beneath in his pants. He inhales air from John's pillow as he strokes himself slowly, recalling how John pins him down and kisses every inch of his body. His breathing quickens and he bites his lips, imagining the taste of John's mouth on his tongue. His moan is muffled in soft cotton as he comes, John's name whispered between heated sighs.

As soon as the haze of lust clears off, the waves of misery close in worse than before. He wraps his arms around himself and racks his brain for an explanation, but before he knows it, the comfort of John's bed lulls him into deep sleep.

His eyes open fully two hours later, judging by the direction of sunbeams on the wall. He realizes his phone has been buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at a text from Lestrade on his screen. Case, double murder. Excellent, just what he needed.

 

A quick shower and a cab ride later, he is standing over two bodies in the back of a dingy old pub somewhere in Peckham.

"Ugh. Boring" he whispers under his breath.

"What's that?" Greg calls from behind.

"Street gang" Sherlock says. "Dispute over drug transactions."

"Mind explaining a bit more?" Greg asks, following behind him to the main street.

"Obvious. Tattoos on the back of their necks clearly shows what gang they belonged to. Murder style too, one bullet between the eyes. Quick and clean. It was an execution. They were either snatching some of the goods behind their bosses' backs or owed someone money, but I can tell it's the former by their backpacks."

"They don't have any backpacks on them."

"Exactly. They were supposed to be selling out here. All their clothes are wet from the rain except for their backs, where they had packs to carry the drugs. Someone tracked them down and took the bags."

"Okay, so what do we do now?"

"Search for the bags. They must have gotten rid of them as soon as they got the drugs. The location should give us a clue."

He dives to cross underneath the police tape and lifts his arm to hail a cab.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Greg calls.

"What? Do you need me to tell you how a routine search is done too?"

"No, you arsehole. I was going to invite you over to dinner with me and Myc, and you could bring that friend of yours we met at the ball. John" Greg smiles and winks.

Sherlock hopes his face doesn't betray the stab of pain he feels at the sound of John's name. He blinks, trying to collect himself.

"It's not… we're not…" He stutters. "No."

"What? Why not?"

Sherlock ignores him and goes to get in the cab, the sooner this conversation ends, the better.

"Sherlock, wait just one moment." Greg grabs his arm to stop him. Sherlock doesn't meet his eye and just stares at the cab door handle.

"I know it's not my place to say this Sherlock, and even if you don't think of me like that, I do consider you family. You're my husband's brother and I care about you."

Sherlock just waits, still unable to look at Greg.

"I've known you even longer than I've known Myc, and I've never seen you talk and laugh with someone like you were with that guy."

Sherlock slowly raises his head to look at his brother in law. He is startled at the deep affection in his eyes. Greg lets go of his arm slowly and smiles to him.

"Don't fuck it up with him. You deserve to be happy."

Sherlock's heart beats at an unreasonable rate as he gets in the car and gives the driver directions. His mind is racing. Is it possible that Greg has discovered the truth before him? That with one look at him and John, he was able to observe and assess the situation correctly? Is it obvious to everyone except him?

Is he now admitting to himself the real reason why he's been missing John Watson like he's never missed anyone? The real reason behind this crippling misery, and why all he can think of is John's deep blue eyes.

But what would he do? Confess his feelings? Start a relationship? He doesn't know how that works. It sounds awfully boring and pointless and unnecessarily complicated. He will ruin it as he ruins everything in his life. John would be sick and tired of him in no time.

But what if…

Hope blooms in his chest as he remembers John's words.

_'This was a game to you?'_

So it wasn't a game to John. Maybe, just maybe, the great Sherlock Homes has misread this entire situation.

He lets himself follow the impulse and gives the driver different directions. His heart beats and his hands shiver with anticipation. He is going to talk to John.


End file.
